He drank, too, once he had seen to the horse, then crouched down beside her. ‘It would be better, if we meet anyone, if you do not give your real name.’
A pang tightened her chest. Of course he would not want it known he was in her company. She smiled brightly. ‘Who shall I be? Mary Queen of Scots?’
He frowned. ‘The cousin of a friend, on her way to her family. I don’t suppose you speak any Gaelic.’
‘A word or two, but I can speak with a Scottish burr,’ she said in broadest Scots.
He nodded. ‘Och, I remember you doing that before. It was days before I realised you were English.’
‘I’m like a chameleon,’ she said with a laugh that was a little more brittle than she intended. ‘I fit in with my surroundings.’
It wasn’t true. She fit in London. Not here.
‘We can say you have been away to school in England and lost the Gaelic. Come, we must keep moving.’
‘How long do you think it will be before they give up looking for us?’
He shrugged. ‘For you? Until you send them word you are safe, I assume.’ He bent and laced his fingers together beside Beau.
‘And you?’ she asked as he tossed her up.
‘With no evidence, there will be no point in them looking.’
Once more she found herself clinging to Ian’s waist, thoughts churning around in her head.
She just wished she could be sure she was doing the right thing running away with Ian instead of seeking out her father and denying it all. Unfortunately, that kind of blatant lying was not her forte.
If only she could think of a logical explanation for being gone in the middle of the night. Something that would not leave them suspecting her of betraying what should have been a confidence, though no one had specifically asked her not to speak of it.
Unfortunately McIver was right—the smugglers’ escape and her disappearance were just too much of a coincidence. She wasn’t even sure that Hawkhurst could, if he even would, give her the alibi she needed.
On the other hand, no one but the smugglers had seen her.
She stared at Ian’s back. One of his own men had betrayed him; if that person had seen her, it wouldn’t matter what kind of alibi she had, there would be a witness against her.
Was that why McIver had drawn Ian aside? Did he know who had betrayed them to the Revenue men?
She bit her lip. Perhaps it was better not to know. The thought gave her a horrid churning feeling in her stomach. Surely Ian wouldn’t … Smugglers were known to be exceedingly dangerous if crossed.
Oh, dear. Had she gone from the frying pan into the fire? She could not, would not, believe Ian would do her any harm. He was simply trying to help her escape the consequences of her folly, because she had helped him. Nothing more.
‘Do you have any idea who gave you away?’
His back stiffened. ‘I have been thinking about it, to no avail.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘No doubt he was forced to it by circumstance.’
‘What do you mean?’
His shoulders rose and fell. ‘Who knows what people keep hidden? It could be debt. Or illness. Or fear of being turned out. There are many ways to make a man betray his loyalty.’
And it depended on where you stood as to what was or was not deemed loyal. ‘Which means we can’t trust anyone in your clan.’
He didn’t answer for a long while. ‘Let us put it this way. There are people I know I can trust and people I am not sure of.’
‘What about me?’ She winced. Did she have to ask? How could he possibly trust an Albright. A Sassenach.
‘I trust you.’ He sounded almost surprised. ‘But I have to be honest, I also believe your first loyalty is to your father.’
She could not deny it, though Father might not exactly see it that way at this moment.
They kept moving all day, sometimes riding, sometimes walking, the hills becoming higher and steeper with every passing hour. They travelled in silence, saving their breath for travelling. And always she felt his urgency, though he never gave a sign he thought she was holding him back. He didn’t have to—she knew she was. Often she had the feeling he only stopped because she needed to rest.
The farther away from Dunross they got, the more she began to fear that her running away was not the right answer. Surely she could have bluffed her way out of the mess. Batting her beautiful eyes, as Ian had said.
He thought her eyes beautiful. When he had said it, she had been too worried to let the words sink in. Now strangely, they made her feel warm inside.
On foot once more, she lifted her gaze and became aware of her surroundings. It was all so wild and beautiful. Misty hills stretched in every direction, their outlines softened by heather and scarred by the odd outcrop of ancient granite. She’d been enchanted by it all that long-ago summer when her father had brought her here after her mother had died. He’d been desolate and had wanted to return to the place where he had spent his honeymoon. Then he’d run off to Inverness—for business reasons, he’d said—leaving her to mourn alone.
Later, he’d admitted that she reminded him too much of her mother and he just couldn’t bear it, but at the time she’d felt abandoned. By them both.
Sixteen and utterly lonely, she’d been ripe to fall in love with the first handsome young man who came her way. Naturally it had to be the worst possible person. Had Ian actually suggested she run away with him then, she would have said ‘yes’ in a heartbeat.
He’d been a knight in shining armour the day he carried her back to the keep in his arms. He’d made her feel soft and feminine. A rush of longing for that feeling filled the empty place in her heart she’d refused to acknowledge.
She shouldn’t be noticing now when they had so many more important things to think about.
‘Do you think we will make it to this place you know of by nightfall?’
He glanced up at the sky. ‘Yes. It is not more than a mile or two now. You’ve done very well for a Sassenach lass. Far better than I expected.’
Praise indeed, though she could have done without the reminder that she was English. Even so, she found herself smiling. He grinned back. How odd to feel happy in such peculiar circumstances.
‘How long do you think it will take to reach Hawkhurst from there?’
‘Once we cross the border and pick up a stagecoach, it shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.’
They crested the rise of a hill and, as nothing but hills stretched before them, the enormity of the distance they would have to travel became real.
‘What will you do, after?’
He shrugged. ‘Come back and continue on as before.’
‘More smuggling, I suppose. Until they finally catch you.’
He shot her a look that was both devil-may-care and world weary. ‘They won’t. And what else can we do until the law punishing us for supporting the true king is changed—the one separating the Highlands from the rest of Scotland and making it impossible to survive?’
Such bitterness. ‘Can the law be changed?’
‘Who will take our part in Westminster?’
Not her father. He had no interest in his Scottish estate, except for sport and a means to political advantage. ‘Lord Carrick?’
‘He does what he can, but Carrick is one voice among many. Highlanders are not popular with the English aristocracy.’
‘It